


If Love's like a Possession, My Letters Are Like My Exorcism

by sunbitten



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 04:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16111271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbitten/pseuds/sunbitten
Summary: They’re all for Dean.Each letter. Five in total. All for Dean.Written at times when his love for Dean was so intense he didn’t know what to do.(Inspired by To All the Boys I've Loved Before)





	If Love's like a Possession, My Letters Are Like My Exorcism

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by To All the Boys I've Loved Before, also where the title comes from.

_Always yours, Sam._

Letter signed, folded in half, and carefully placed into the envelope. Lick the envelope, seal it up, and address it.

Sam stares down at his handiwork. Done. His letter’s ready to be mailed.

He gets up from his desk and heads towards the entranceway. Before reaching the front door, Sam veers to the left and opens the door to the storage closet. His hand reaches up, extending all the way to the back right hand corner, and takes down an old shoebox.

Opening the box, Sam’s greeted with even more letters—all with the same recipient, all with the same address, all never sent.

He brushes his fingers fondly over them before placing the new letter amongst the rest.

He closes the box, puts it back in its hidden corner, and closes the door.

* * *

International Law is becoming a real pain in the ass. His professor drones on and on, making so many tangents in his lecture that it’s impossible to figure out what’s important and what’s not, he never takes questions, and he assigns a ridiculous amount of reading—damn tenure. Maybe if Sam finds another class that’ll fit into his schedule and can be used as his political science credit, he can still drop it.

But it’s Friday and all his classes are done for the day, so it’s a problem that can wait till the weekend’s over. All he plans to do is go home, have a beer, and maybe convince Jess to watch _Fight Club_ rather than their usual weekly romcom.

By the time he’s unlocking the front door, Sam has his argument down pat—Jess, you’ve picked the movie the last few weeks, and though _The Notebook, 50 First Dates_ , and all those were great, let me choose this week. Yeah, great strategy Winchester: compliment the movies and reason with her.

His argument and strategy go out the window the second he steps into their apartment and trips over a box.

He rights himself just in time to see Jess enter the foyer with another one in her hands.

“Hey, honey.” She leans up to give Sam a kiss in greeting.

“We moving?” Sam says with a small smile, watching her stack the box on top of the one he tripped over.

“No.” She pauses and takes the sharpie resting behind her ear to scribble something down on the side of the box Sam can’t see. “I didn’t have class today, so I figured I’d do some spring cleaning, except in September. You know, before the semester gets too busy.”

Sam nods his head in understanding and is just about to ask how he can help when, in the corner of his eye, he sees the door to the storage closet open and the contents within considerably more empty.

“Did you already do the closet?”

“Yeah, figured that place needed to be cleaned out the most.”

Sam swears his heart stops, and the thrum of panic and adrenaline begins rise in his body. Jess didn’t..., did she? He needs to make sure.

“Uhh, th-there was this box in there, like an old shoebox. Did you happen to find that?”

“Oh, yeah! The one with all the letters inside?”

Crap! She did. She did find it. Found Sam’s secret stash of love letters. Everything Sam worried about is coming true. Jess found the box, opened the letters, and read all of them. There’s no doubt in his mind. Who wouldn’t read letters so oddly stockpiled away like that? Now she knows that that he’s basically cheating on her— emotionally, but it still counts—and that he’s practically a freak. Probably never wants to see him again.

Everything about this situation is making him feel sick. It must show on his face because Jess is now looking up at him with concern. God, what an angel. He’s the freak who ruined everything and she’s still worried about him. But her expression suddenly changes into one of realization, eyes widening slightly, lips parting, and eyebrows shooting up. Sam’s afraid to find out what she just realized.

“Oh, I didn’t open them!”

Sam sags in relief like a deflated balloon. Everything's ok; his secrets are still safe, and his relationship with Jess is still intact. He’s so happy he could hug someone. So that’s what he does, pulling Jess in to his embrace and burying his face in her hair.

She lets out a little chuckle and swats at his arm. “What? You thought I opened them? Come on, Sam.”

Sam lets out his own little chuckle as well, but it’s a little weak as he’s still coming down from his mini panic attack. “Sorry,” he says, pulling back a little to look at her face. “They’re very private letters, so I tend to assume the worst.”

Jess gives Sam a peck on the cheek before stepping out of his arms and back to her boxes. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask.”

Sam smiles. Some days he still has a hard time believing he has such a great girlfriend. He goes over to help her lift the boxes when it hits him.

“So, where are my letters?”

“Oh, I mailed them. They were already sealed and addressed, so I put some stamps on them and dropped them off on my way to the dumpster earlier.”

For the second time that day, all within five minutes, Sam’s heart stops. But there’s no full-on adrenaline this time. Instead, he’s full of dread, so full of it that it’s taken over his lungs and he’s suffocating on it.

What he thought was the worst-case scenario earlier pales in comparison to what’s actually happening. It’s _so_ bad, so bad that he hadn’t _even_ considered it a possibility.

Jess is talking again, somewhere to his right. Maybe she’s telling him it’s all a joke, that she actually took them to the dumpster too.

“You know, you could’ve sent them off earlier; I had stamps if you needed them. I bet he would’ve enjoyed getting them, but he’ll probably be happy to get a giant pile of your letters all at once.”

Nope, she still talking about how the letters have been sent. God, he’s hidden his old hunting equipment in a place Jess will never find them, why couldn’t he have done the same with his letters?

“They’re to your brother, right? Dean?”

He’s barely aware that Jess asked him a question. It’s the name that gets his attention. “Huh? Yeah.”

They’re all for Dean.

Each letter. Five in total. All for Dean.

Written at times when his love for Dean was so intense he didn’t know what to do.

There was the time a month into freshman year where he missed having Dean by his side everyday that he nearly packed all his stuff to rejoin his brother on the road. The time when he and Jess started to get serious and he gave her his virginity, and though her body was soft and sweet and everything he fantasized about, it was thoughts of his brother that were the true savior in the torture of pleasure, and he accepted that his love for Dean will never wane. Both of their birthdays right after contact with Dean had stopped, and Sam had stayed up till the next morning waiting for the annual exchange of _Happy Birthday, Bitch/Jerk_ that never came. And the time when he had been watching the late-night news cover a story about strange deaths in Olympia that he was sure had to be vampires, and thoughts of Dean having his jugular ripped out by blood stained fangs kept him from sleep.

It’s only a matter of time before his love for Dean, his _way-_ more-than-brotherly-love, is out in the open. How is Dean going to react? Is he going to drive all the way to Palo Alto to punch Sam in the face and call him disgusting? Or, is he just going to continue the radio silence, and any hopes of Sam seeing Dean again are dashed?

Either option sounds rather awful and is making his panic levels rise. Everything that’s happened in the _last two minutes_ is making his panic levels rise, and he’s beginning to feel a little lightheaded.

The room around him is beginning to spin, Jess, walking back into the foyer with another box, is right in the middle of his vertigo. Wait, when did she even leave the room?

“Alright, I’m almost done sorting through the living room. If you could just go in and see if there’s—woah, Sam are you alright?”

Her words are muffled and Sam can’t make out a word she’s saying. All he knows is that he has to get out before she realizes he is truly messed up about those letters because once she does, she’ll learn the truth about his love for Dean.

Sam blinks his eyes a couple times to get his head straight. “Um, actually, I need to go the library. I need to get a head start if I wanna finish all my reading for International Law.”

He starts towards the door, stumbling a little bit as he tries to pick up his backpack where he dumped it by the coat rack. Before he can open the door, Jess places her hand on his that’s wrapped around the doorknob. He looks up at her face and sees a fretful expression marring her features.

“Sam, are we ok?”

Sam is not ok. But he can’t let Jess know that, sohe lays his other hand on top of hers and gives her a fake smile.

“Yeah we’re fine. Just you know how Professor Barnes is.”

She smiles and squeezes his hand before letting go and making her way back to the living room.

Once Sam is out the door and several blocks away, he collapses on a bus stop bench. He feels like he’s gonna puke and tears are prickling at his eyes. He has no cure. All he can do is put his head in his hands and pretend none of it’s happening.

And here he thought International Law was going to be his biggest problem.

* * *

A month passes and the letters, and all the emotional turmoil it caused, is a thing of the past. Without any fallout or repercussions–at least none that’s presented itself to him–denial makes it easy to forget.

Sam’s life is back on track; actually, it’s better than that. He and Jess are doing exceptionally well, he’s scored 174 on his LSAT, and he’s got an interview that basically has his entire future on a plate.

But then there’s a noise downstairs and someone’s breaking in. Sam tries to fight off the intruder, except the intruder knocks him over and pins him to the floor.

“Woah, easy, tiger.”

“Dean?”

Sam’s so confused. Dean’s here. In his apartment. Sam didn’t have too much to drink, so this isn’t some drunk hallucination. It’s also can’t be a dream because his body is still stinging from all the blows he received in their little tussel. And then, like a bulb flickering on, it hits him.

Oh God, it’s Dean! Here in his apartment. The letters. Dean’s here because of the letters.

“Dean, what the hell are you doing here?” He’s not sure why he asks, he’s sure that he really doesn’t want the answer.

“Well, I was looking for a beer.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” He asks again, just needing Dean to confirm his suspicions and put a quicker end to this nightmare.

“Ok. alright. We gotta talk.”

“Uh, the phone?”

“If I’d’a called, would you have picked up?”

No, probably not. He probably would’ve avoided Dean’s calls like the plague and continued their radio silence.

The lights suddenly turn on and Jess is here now too. This night is turning out so bad. He’s about to have Dean reject and harshly rebuke him, and Jess is going to find out everything and leave him. But Dean’s not saying anything about the letters yet, so maybe if Sam plays his cards right, pretends that he only has eyes for Jess and that the letters are nonexistent, Dean will believe he’s mistaken and leave.

He puts his arm around Jess and tells Dean they’re a united front. Dean looks a little unsure, and Sam’s pretty sure that means his plan is actually working. There’s no way Dean thinks there’s any truth to his letters.

But then Dean’s talking about their dad being missing.

* * *

They drive through the night, and Sam’s too keyed up to fall asleep. He spends the drive throwing glances at Dean, trying to see how he’s changed over the years. With Dean at the wheel, he’s almost like a snapshot straight from Sam’s memories. Same clothes, same bravado, same easygoing and flippant personality, but he knows– _knew_ –Dean well enough to see the subtle changes.

Dean’s not as open or cheerful: they used to drive hours in the car and Dean would never shut up, always making jokes and teasing Sam. He’s less affectionate and touchy-feely: where were the hair ruffles, arm slung around the shoulder, or the bodily jostling that usually ended in roughhousing? This Dean’s different, he’s hardened and more guarded around Sam, a ghost of the brother he grew up with. Sam can’t help wonder if it was the time apart that’s changed Dean or maybe his letters.

The sun’s been in the sky a couple hours by the time they finally pull over, and declaring the need to gas up, Dean mutters his first words towards Sam since they’ve left Palo Alto. Sam’s not sure if it’s a good thing or not. The silence might be a little awkward but at least Dean’s not bringing up his letters or even alluding to them.

Sam resolves that if Dean’s not gonna bring up the letters, neither will he. This way, he can go back to believing that Dean never got them. It’s totally plausible; for all he knows, Dean probably doesn’t even use the same P.O. box anymore, and his lovelorn, schmoopy messages ended up in the hands of some poor unsuspecting citizen.

The more he thinks about it the more he deludes himself until he wholeheartedly believes that the letters are officially a thing of the past. With new found reassurance, Sam opens the door and leans out to ask Dean if he keeps the music in the same place. Something seems to shift in Dean’s demeanor; his eyes twinkle a bit and a grin twitches into place before disappearing. “Yeah, you remember?” he calls out as he makes his way into the store. Sam stretches an arm under the seat, a nostalgic smile spreading on his face when his fingers brush against cardboard, and pulls out a lightly beat-up box of tapes.

He’s fondly sifting through the box when Dean comes back with his horrendous interpretation of breakfast. With a few barbs thrown at Dean’s credit cards and outdated music, their banter is suddenly back and it’s beginning to feel like old times, beginning to feel like he’s back to being with _his_ Dean. Despite his protests to save face, he even secretly relishes the Sammy he gets.

As they approach Jericho, Sam’s easily slipping back into hunter mode and recreating the perfect team with Dean. He’s already making calls inquiring after their dad and he’s confident that they’ll solve this case, hunt the monster, and find dad in record time.

All his confidence goes out the window when they reach the bridge into town and see it swarming with cops. Sam’s so busy trying to figure out what happened that he barely notices Dean reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out a box containing an array of fake IDs and badges. Dean pulls out a badge with a cocky smile that says _yeah, I’m old enough to fake federal agents now, jealous_ ; he must think that Sam’s totally bewildered by his rebelliousness, but what really catches Sam’s eye and petrifies him are the sheets of paper with his handwriting peeking out from where they’re tucked to the bottom of the box underneath all the fakes.  

It’s his letters!

There’s no mistaking it. Sam had so painstakingly crafted each one and stared at each of them with such yearning when they were done that he’d recognize them anywhere. Dean _does_ have them.

Just like that, the panic and the fear is back. A thousand and one different possibilities of Dean reacting to his letters are racing through his mind in lightning quick succession. Only a handful of misguided ones end well just to be squashed by the next awful scenario.

Dean’s completely oblivious to the hysteria currently going on in Sam’s mind as he pockets the ID and gets out of the car. There’s nothing he can do now. If he freaks out, Dean will sooner or later find out Sam’s aware that he posses his letters. Sam’s not willing to let that happen. With a sigh, he steels himself, trying to separate his personal problems from the hunt, and gets out the car.

Sam had forgotten how engrossed he could get in a case, how much he could block out the world and all his problems in his endeavor to solve the mystery and save people. After their encounter with the police, the leads just keep coming and it leaves little time for Sam to worry about his letters. He and Dean are working so well together and have already identified Constance Welch as their primary suspect. They head to the bridge to investigate where Constance had taken her plunge, and suddenly, things are falling apart between them.

All Sam does is remind Dean that he needs to be back by Monday. Dean’s shoulders tense and when he turns towards Sam, his eyes are fiery with indignation. He’s suddenly bringing up Jess and Sam remembers that he needs to get back to his life, get away from Dean and the feelings he brings up.

Dean pushes and pushes with his words and Sam’s just as brutal. They’re arguing, using words just to hurt, refusing to acknowledge the truth they hide behind them. They’ve had more than their fair share of arguments, a lot of times– _just like now_ , Sam thinks–not understanding why the other’s angry, but it’s hardly this ferocious. Sam’s worried Dean’ll eventually bring up his letters to use against him.

Before Dean has the chance to use his trump card, Constance appears and runs them off the bridge. They both dive over the railing, and Sam manages to grab onto the ledge of the bridge, but Dean…

Sam scans the water and sees nothing in the dark. Tendrils of panic begin to twist in his gut. He calls out for his brother, hoping his voice will carry out to wherever Dean is.

After a few heart pounding seconds, that feel more like hours, some sort of mud-caked lump crawls out of the water and answers Sam in his brother’s voice. Oh thank God, Dean’s alive! The relief is instantaneous and all Sam can do is laugh.

Dean’s impromptu high dive makes him smell worse than most of the gas station restrooms they’ve stopped at, and no matter how much Sam loves him, being anywhere near his stink radius is absolutely the last thing he wants to do. Dean gets a whiff of himself, and with a wrinkled nose and a pointed glance thrown his way, the decision to get a room is an unspoken agreement.

If it weren’t for the fact that a ghost had nearly turned them into roadkill, Sam would say they’re pretty lucky. Maybe it’s just Winchester instinct that led them to picking the same motel their dad did. Whatever it is, he’s just glad they’re one step closer to finding him. Even if he isn’t here, at least they know what they’re hunting now.

The end of the case is in sight, and it nags at Sam’s brain that he might return to Stanford with Dean still smarting from his words. He knows that mom is a touchy subject for Dean and exploiting it like he did more than deserves him being slammed into the bridge. Sam can’t stand being at odds with Dean, having something that might disturb the bond between them. Although there’s nothing he can do about the rift Stanford–and probably his letters–has done, he can apologize for their fight last night.

“No chick-flick moments.”

With those three words, Sam knows their fight is forgotten and Dean is back to his normal big brother self, the one that refuses to let Sam feel guilty and refuses to milk his apology. Sam’s so delighted in Dean’s forgiveness, his heart singing with affection for his brother, that he can’t help the next words that come out of his mouth.

“All right. Jerk.” It comes out with a somewhat odd intonation at end, as if signifying his unsureness whether this old ritual is still accepted and carrying hope that it is.  

“Bitch.”

Sam’s on cloud nine. To anyone else, being called a bitch would be an insult, but to Sam, it’s the meaning behind the affectionate moniker that draws out a small chuckle. Being back in Dean’s presence makes his heart flutter and his insides giddy like a middle school crush all over again, but Dean indulging him with their little nickname game reminds him of just _how much_ Sam loves him. Despite all the years separated and all the troubles and pains they’ve endured, Dean still considers him the bitch to his jerk, nothing changed in their relationship, they’re still the same Sam and Dean. Old memories and emotions are dredged up, the dormant feelings of when he first realized his love for his brother and every moment his brother made his heart skip a beat since then reawakens in him, reigniting his heart and soul to ache for his brother in a way that he’d never be able to comprehend.

Sam’s checking his voicemail when Dean, freshly showered and scent more akin to the waxy motel soap than a toilet at a shady Vegas buffet, heads out the door for food. There’s a message from Jess and hearing her voice causes a sense of reality to wash over him, all contentment he felt fifteen minutes ago gone. He knows that he has to go back, back to the real world of Stanford and Jess and a future he chose for himself; he can’t keep pretending that he can stay with dean and have everything go back to how it was.

With Jess’ voice rambling on in the background, Sam renews his resolve to quickly solve this case before reminders of his love for Dean tempts him into never going back. Dean’s arrest only puts him into action even quicker.

After Sam receives the location of the grave from Mr. Welch and arranges a way for Dean to get out of custody, he makes his way to the Old Welch House to burn the bones of Constance. Instead of meeting her skeleton at the grave in the backyard, her ghosts meets him on the stretch of road a little ways away from the house.

She’s yelling at him to take her home and Sam refuses. Not that it seems to matter as Constance takes control of the Impala and drives them the rest of the way there. He’s defenseless, wishing he could just access the trove of weapons that’s in the trunk, and figures that his best chance is to reason with her.

“You can’t kill me. I’m not unfaithful. I’ve never been.”

Jess and Dean quickly flash through his mind. He tells himself that it’s always been Jess, even if his heart often beats for Dean as well, he’s never acted upon it and has always been physically true, which is the most important thing. Sam’s not sure if he believes his own words, but Constance doesn’t know.

She doesn’t seem to believe it either as she digs her fingers into his chest. There’s no good way out and he might die, and yet, Sam can’t help but think what a fitting end for an unfaithful freak like him.

It’s by some miracle that Dean arrives and dispatches the ghost. The second Constance disappears from his lap, Sam jumps into action and drives into the house, effectively quelling her once and for all.

They’re still hopped up on adrenaline when they tear out of Jericho. Sam’s in the passenger seat tracking their dad’s whereabouts. Blackwater Ridge, Colorado. Dean’s inviting him to come along, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

Sam hesitates, jaw moving trying to say yes and say no at the same time. He really wants to go along but it’s not what he needs to do. This life, hunting, Dean, it’s not for him. Dean takes his non-answer as one and, with a dejected nod, navigates the Impala towards Palo Alto. Sam hates the disappointment that sours the air between them.

They pull up in front of Sam’s apartment and Dean’s still frowning, hasn’t said a word to him since Sam rejected to tag along. Sam gets out of the car, preparing himself to become regular college joe again, but he can’t quite bear to let Dean go.

“And maybe I can meet up with you later, huh?”

Dean’s answer is a little flippant, like he doesn’t quite believe that Sam’ll see him again. Sam understands. If the past is any indication, they’ll both keep their distance and it might be years till they meet up again.

Sam turns to make his way into his apartment, already beginning to miss Dean.

“Sam?”

He tries not to turn around too quickly; it’s only by sheer willpower that he’s not jumping back into the Impala and telling Dean to floor it to Colorado.

“You know, we made a hell of a team back there.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees quietly, thoughts of what they could’ve been, what they could be, running through his mind. It feels like Dean’s giving in to all of Sam’s desires, but at the same time, it also feels like Sam’s giving up on them.

With a regretful sigh, Sam watches Dean drive off, his heart and his hopes going with him.

There’s a plate of cookies waiting for him in the kitchen. Jess and her baking, a great start to getting over Dean. The bathroom door’s ajar with the shower going, and Sam’s content to wait for her to get out and give her a proper greeting. He flops back onto the bed, a giddy nostalgia taking over him as he closes his eye to relive the weekend with Dean on the back of his lids.

It was good being back with Dean. Even though he doesn’t have Dean the way he wants, just seeing him, being near him was enough to feed his affections and remind his heart how alive it could be. The emotions make his fingers itch to write out another letter. The memory of his letters in the glove compartment make him cringe, but the feelings are so strong. It’s not like anything bad happened because of the letters. Maybe Dean never even read them. It’s believable, even if a slight doubt forms in acknowledgment of of how amazing his abilities for denial are. Maybe if he hides them better, hides them in… drip, drip, drip.

He opens his eyes and Jess is burning on the ceiling.

* * *

Sam’s grieving. Although he never considered Jess the love of his life, he still had genuine love and affection for her. Seeing her pinned to the ceiling bleeding and burning shattered his heart almost irreparably. Her terrified face plaguing his thoughts at all times.

Dean had saved him and brought him back on the road. He gets to be reunited with Dean, back in the Impala heading towards Colorado, just like he wanted moments before Jess died. If it weren’t for the fact that he was teaming up with his brother to hunt down the thing that killed her, Sam would feel guilty. But none of that matters now, his heart’s too broken and his mind to preoccupied with revenge to even consider his feelings for Dean.

Months and months pass spent hunting wendigos, ghosts, demons, shapeshifters, and more. The sting of Jess’ death still causes a deep ache within him, but it slightly lessens with familiarity.

Being with Dean helps too. With each moment Dean does something that reminds Sam of why he loves him, the part of his heart that houses his feelings for his brother helps mend the grief ravaged bits until it feels whole again, wrapped up gently in bandages like how Dean treated his arm after it got horrendously slashed on his first hunt.

They’re in Oklahoma. Dean’s in the bar and Sam’s waiting in the Impala. It’s not till Sam’s rooting around the IDs, trying to see if any needs to be retouched, that he remembers his letters. His fingers skim across the inky blackness of the address and the temptation becomes too real. With a quick glance to the bar’s entrance, Sam digs out all five letters.

He’s still secretly hoping that Dean’s never read the letters, that his silence about the subject stems from unawareness, that Dean got the letters, saw they were from Sam, and without bothering to read them, just shoved them into this box.

Sam raises them up to eye level, closes his eyes, and mutters under his breath _please don’t be open_ a few times before he turns them around. Peaking open one eye and then the other, he finds that of course luck’s never on his side. They’re open.

He shuffles through each of them just to make sure. Unfortunately, all of them are open, the seam gently unsealed with a knife.

With a groan, Sam tucks them back into the box and stuffs it as far into the glove compartment as he can. He gets out, the Impala suddenly too stifling, and sits on the hood. The cool night air calms him a bit and leaves him levelheaded enough to examine the situation.

The same question runs through his mind: why hasn’t Dean brought it up yet? Dean’s never been one to hold back in his teasing, nor is he one to let matters of conflict just slide. Maybe this situations just too weird for Dean to act normally; there really isn’t a set protocol for when your brother professes his undying love to you in a multitude of weepy, sentimental love letters. Maybe Dean’s acting like him right now, so uncomfortable with what’s happened that the best course of action is to just ignore it–got to thank those Winchester genes for the ability to deny everything.

Whatever, if Dean’s content to never acknowledge it, so is Sam.

* * *

They make it to Georgia. There’s reports of men found dead in their bedrooms, no forced entry, and the only remains being picked-clean bones and blood splatters thrown all over. Their dad’s journal tells them it’s some sort of man-eater called a Kolowa.

Their investigation leads them to a gated community mainly inhabited by gay men. A few trips around the block and they can’t seem to find anyone until they turn into the cul-de-sac where there’s a house with balloons attached to the mailbox and a convergence of what must be everyone that lives in the community.

Dean parks as close as he can and stares at the house with a ruminating expression. “I think a couple is gonna be our best cover.”

Sam inwardly groans. It’s not even been a month since they last pretended to be a couple in Oasis Plains. Before Sam can even protest, Dean’s already out the door and telling him to hurry up.

They press the doorbell and a man in a pink polo with a baby blue cardigan tied around his shoulders greets them. He looks at them puzzled, like he’s trying to remember who they are. Sam’s tries to quickly disalarm him, thinking of a reasonable cover story, but Dean beats him to it by laying on the charm.  

“Hi, my partner and I are thinking about moving into this community, so we came down to look around and ask the neighbors how they like it, but we couldn’t seem to find anybody. We were just about give up and go home until we saw that everyone must be here.”

The man’s face lights up and he extends a hand shake to both of them. “Oh my gosh, hi! I’m John Paul. Welcome to Glorywood Estates, you’ll love it here. You came at the right time too, we’re having our biweekly barbecue. Everyone shows up, so it’s the perfect time to meet the neighbors.”

John Paul pulls them into the house and roughly guides them into the kitchen where a man, this time in a baby blue polo and pink cardigan, is assembling a cheese board. It’s beginning to feel real _Stepford Wives_ -y. If Sam’s already getting the creeps, he can’t imagine what Dean must be feeling.

“Guys, this is Daryll.” The man, Daryll, looks up. “Honey, these two are thinking about moving here. Aren’t they just the cutest couple? Almost as cute as us.”

The compliment almost makes Sam smile. If only it weren’t some sort of weird humblebrag.

Daryll makes his way over and puts his hands on John Paul’s shoulders and, with the most sickeningly sweet voice that Sam’s ever heard, replies, “They sure do, honey.”

They gaze into each other’s eyes, practically eyebanging, for what Sam counts to be at least two minutes–the most awkward two minutes he’s had in a while–until Dean gives a small cough.

Daryll finally looks at them and gives them a smile that has Sam believing he’s a toothpaste model.

“Welcome. Hope the community’s finding you well. If you have any questions about the Estates, don’t be afraid to ask.”

Sam already has questions about the case forming on his tongue when John Paul interrupts, “Isn’t it great they found us? We’re kind of the unofficial official welcoming party. Oh, and on barbecue day too! We throw the best barbecues. Way better than Brad and Brandon’s, right honey?”

It’s a gut feeling that’s telling him that these two might be what they’re hunting, but at the same time, it might just be because this exchange’s really awkward and makes Sam want to get away from this community as fast as possible.

Dean places a hand on the small of his back, pulling him in to his side. Dean must feel the unease too, big brother instinct telling him to shield and protect him. In his peripheral vision, he spies a smile on Dean’s face. It’s not that odd really; sometimes, Dean puts on a manic smile when he’s facing something truly sinister. The situation doesn’t seem that dangerous yet, and Dean’s smile is actually kinda soft, but whatever. He’s trying to get a read on the toothpaste model and the man who reminds him of a yappy chihuahua, not Dean.  

For some reason, John Paul squeals. “Oh, you two are just darling! Look at us keeping you; everyone must see you. Come, come.”

They follow John Paul to a sunroom. Dean’s hand leaves his back on the way; he feels a little less secure.

“We’ve got some great corn we bought this morning at the farmers market, some veggie kabobs, and most importantly: sausages,” John Paul teases with a little shimmy and wag of his eyebrows. He opens the French doors and ushers Sam and Dean through them.

It’s like that moment in a wedding when all eyes are on the bride, except far less adoring and a hundred times more uncomfortable. Everyone stops what they’re doing and turns to look at them, eyes squinting and looking them up and down. Sam can tell from their appraising faces–at least from the ones not undressing them with their eyes–that they’re doubting he and Dean are gay–probably cause of their dirty, multilayered clothing–and shouldn’t even be here. He feels more naked and self-conscious than he’s felt in a long time. But Dean doesn’t seem to feel the same, he just grins and walks down the steps of the deck.

As they walk across the yard, Sam feels a hand slide into the right back pocket of his jeans. He’s about to flounder around and look for the culprit, but it’s pretty obvious who it is with the way Dean is plastered to his left side.

“Dude what are you doing?” Sam hisses, low enough so no one hears them.

“Gotta make us being gay more realistic, Sammy,” Dean explains with an expression like they’ve gone over it a million times.

“Ok, but like this?”

“Well, I don’t think you want me to try and kiss you, Sam.” Dean really couldn’t be more wrong; it's him that doesn’t want to kiss Sam.

“Plus, _Sixteen Candles._ Everyone loves _Sixteen Candles._ ”

Sam blinks owlishly at Dean. He knows why he knows what _Sixteen Candles_ is, had a girlfriend who gave him a crash course on romcoms. But Dean, Mr. I-don’t-do-chick-flicks?

“How do _you_ know what _Sixteen Candles_ is?”

Dean just half shrugs. “It was a popular movie at that drive-in theatre in one of the towns we went to school. Chicks really digged it and ate it up when I tried to be romantic and copied the movie.” They’ve reached the other end of the yard, the aroma of sizzling pork fat and grilled corn stronger now. “They really liked it when I’d put my hand in their pocket like this. Plus, it gave me a chance to get a little squeeze.” And on cue Dean pinches his butt through the fabric of his jeans.

Sam nearly yelps in surprise, but before he can, Dean’s hand is retreating from his pocket, fingers hooking into the corner of it, and spinning him around.

He’s shocked by Dean’s actions, so shocked he can’t speak, so shocked he doesn’t think it’s possible to be more shocked.

But Dean proves him wrong when he reaches up to brush hair out of Sam’s face and leans in to whisper in his ear. “Alright, I’m gonna go to the restroom and check out the house, ask Mr. and Mr. Brady Bunch some questions. You stay here, mingle, see if anyone know anything.”

Ok, simple orders Sam can follow, they’re just doing their job. No need for his heart to be racing.

But then Dean’s hand is sliding down to cup his cheek. “Good job, Sammy,” he says warmly, an expression Sam thinks is fondness shining on his face, before stepping away.

Sam watches Dean make his way back to the house. He tries not to notice he feels colder without Dean’s warmth at his side, that he misses the weight in his back pocket, wants Dean’s fingers running through his hair. He’s so busy trying not to notice these things that he doesn’t notice a big, burly man with slightly feral eyes sidle up to him.

“Man, you’re lucky to have a boyfriend like him.”

Sam only absentmindedly nods.

* * *

It takes a couple weeks to fully heal Sam’s sprained ankle from when the Kolowa attempted to eat him. It’s also time to do laundry.

They pull up to a laundromat in the outskirts of Phoenix, unload their duffles, and set up camp by their chosen machines.

Sam always likes to make sure all his pockets are empty before putting them into the wash. Once, he accidentally left a lighter to go through the spin and tumble, and when he needed it a couple hours later to burn the bones of a ghost that was fast-approaching, it wouldn’t light. Sam had a concussion the rest of the night. Lesson learned.

He’s almost done checking when he gets down to his last pair of jeans. Both front pockets are clear, nothing in the left back pocket. He reaches into the right back pocket and something crinkles under his fingertips.

What did he leave back here? A receipt? A candy wrapper? Some lore he scribbled down?

Befuddled, Sam pulls it out. It’s just a scrap piece of notebook paper folded in half. He turns it over and sees _♡Sammy_ written on it.

Where did this come from? Who’s leaving notes in his clothes? Was it Jess? No, her hand writing’s different, and he’s washed these jeans since she’s died.

He’s about to unfold it and see if there’s any other clues when Dean slams into his side and dumps all his clothes straight from his duffle into the washer.

Dean looks down at the note in his hands and gives a small frown. “You’re just finding that now? I put that in your pocket weeks ago.”

Dean put it there. Dean put a note with a heart next to his name in his pocket. He put it in his pocket weeks ago. Weeks ago when they were pretending to be gay and in a relationship.

Sam angrily pockets the note in the pants he’s currently wearing and practically hurls the jeans into the wash.

“What the hell, Dean?”

Dean just looks at him confused. “Sam–”

“You haven’t said a word about my letters since I’ve been back. I know you’ve seen them. I know you read them.” Sam slams the lid to the machine down and forcefully punches in the coins. “I thought you were just ignoring them, didn’t care as long care as long as I didn’t force my disgusting feelings on you. But turns out you were just making fun of me, mocking me by writing your own little fake love notes.”

Sam really doesn’t want to hear what Dean has to say. He storms out of the laundromat, ignoring Dean calling out to him. For once, spending the day in the hot, sweltering Impala is way more appealing than being anywhere near Dean.

* * *

Sam spends the next week giving Dean the cold shoulder, only talking when it’s about food or their next job. He knows Dean is trying to not let it show that it bothers him. He talks, jokes, tries to engage with Sam and fill the silence between them as much as possible, but Sam sees it in the way Dean’s smile falters or his shoulders stiffen when he doesn’t reply or turns his attention away from him. Life in the Impala becomes tense.

They’re hunting another Wendigo gone rogue, this time near a resort close to Aspen. After the first disappearance, a number of skiers and ski patrollers have gone missing with witnesses saying they went off chasing after the voices of those previous calling out for help. Their biggest clue came from a patroller who managed to escape. Her interview in the paper, which stated it was nothing like a bear, completely emaciated, abnormally fast, and as tall as an eighteen-wheeler, was discredited and ruled off as a hallucination brought on by heavy blood loss, but it allows Sam and Dean to figure out what they were hunting before even crossing over into Colorado.

It’s dusk out when they finally arrive to an area just outside the resort. The weather’s still cold enough that little snow flurries are still falling, and it worries Sam. He’s not sure how well the Impala does with snow since the two of them are bigger fans of mild weather and tend to stick to such.

After driving around a bit, Dean finally pulls into the long driveway of a small secluded cabin that’s completely dark and void of any movement. He shifts the gear into park, leans forward to get a better view of the cabin, and nods once. “Looks empty. Probably already gone for the season. What do you say? You check out the front, I’ll go around back?”

Sam doesn’t bother answering, just shows his compliance by getting out of the car.

He shines a light through the front windows and picks the lock to the front door, and as expected, it’s empty. Entering the room, Sam flicks on the switch, and thank god, electricity. The overhead light snaps on and illuminates the front room. There’s a loveseat in front of a fireplace on one side and a kitchenette with a dining table on the other side.  

There’s a thermostat on the wall in the tiny hallway that’s parallel to the front door. Sam turns on the heater and immediately feels warm air coming out of the vents, soothing away the chill from his bones.

Not wanting to leave his warm spot in front of the vent, Sam turns his head both ways to check out what’s at each end of the hallway: a bedroom on the right and a bathroom on the left.

God dammit, _one_ bedroom. That means either he and Dean are gonna have to share, he’s gonna have to force Dean to sleep elsewhere, or he’s gonna have to contort himself to fit on the loveseat. The first option is _definitely_ not happening, the second option includes talking, maybe even arguing, with Dean and Sam’s just not up for that. So option three–and all it’s back pains–seems to be the winner.

Sighing, Sam goes into the bathroom and turns on the tap. At least they have water.

Water, gas, and electricity. The place is a little small–not that they need much space–but it can be considered cozy. All in all, this might be one of the best places they’ve stayed. Sam might even call it romantic. Too bad this thing going on between them won’t let them enjoy it, especially the way Sam wants.

Sam already has the duffles unloaded and is setting up his place on the loveseat by the time Dean walks in from the bedroom.

“Dude, did you know there’s a balcony in the back? But the best part: hot tub. There’s a hot tub.”

Sam just leaves Dean standing there with thrown out, upturned hands and an expectant face.

“And, get this. It’s heart shaped,” Dean says, the smile on his face quirking with amusement.

Yeah, heart shaped, ridiculous. Just like Sam’s own heart.

He’s done setting up his bed and is beginning to pack the duffle for the hunt tomorrow morning when Dean says, “I’m actually gonna take a soak in it if you wanna join me, Sammy.”

Sam nearly scoffs. When is Dean going to stop teasing him and playing with his heart? He looks up from packing the flares to glare at Dean. Dean’s smile falls and he twitches back; it makes Sam a little happy to see him flustered.

“Well, I’ll be there if you change your mind.”

Sam finishes packing and takes a quick shower. When he exits the bathroom, the bedroom is still dark and the cabin’s very quiet. Is Dean still in the hot tub? How long is he gonna let this prank go on? It’s been nearly thirty minutes since he went in, and Sam’s beginning to worry. Maybe Dean hit his head or fell asleep and is currently drowning. Maybe Dean doesn’t know that you shouldn’t stay in a hot tub too long and is sitting there being cooked alive.

Maybe he’s really waiting for Sam to join him.

Preposterous.

Sam really needs to calm his imagination. Keeping his hands busy might help. He folds his towel and shirts and places them back in his bag. Moving on to his pants, he grabs for it, fingers closing over the area of his pocket. A crumpling sound comes out of it.

He reaches in and out comes Dean’s note. In his rage, he forgot he put it there.

There’s no reason to keep it, no reason to keep playing into Dean’s game. He’s about to throw it away when he stops halfway to the trash can. Curiosity takes over, overshadowing the fear of Dean’s rejection. Maybe Dean wrote him something nice, something… no, can’t be. Can it? With shaking hands, he unfolds it.

_Sammy, I love reading your letters. Makes me want to tell you how much I love you. Makes me want to kiss you. Want you to write me more._

He rereads it one more, two more, three more times, trying to make sure he understands it. Dean’s handwriting can be a mess sometimes, maybe Sam misread a word.

No, everything’s clear, there’s no mistaking any of it.

He tries to search for some hidden meaning, signs of it being written in an altered state of mind, something that belies Dean’s words.

No, the words are so straightforward, so Dean, there’s no way they can mean anything else.

Sam tries to hold on to the idea of it being a continuation of a prank, but Dean sitting out there in the hot tub combined with this note has him believing that maybe, just maybe, Dean feels the same way he does.

No, impossible. Don’t be crazy.

He needs to forget about this. Throwing away the note would be a good start. But there’s something stopping him, something making him shove the note into his duffel instead.

Sam lies down on the couch, just needing sleep to render him unconscious from the mess that’s his life, but he tosses and turns for about thirty seconds before sitting up. _Dean, hot tub, note, Dean, hot tub, note_ keeps running through mind, keeping away any chance of sleep. It’s probably the lack of sleep that finally convinces him that Dean waiting for him in the hot tub proves he might actually mean the words in his note. He also blames the lack of sleep for the reckless confidence that needs him to confront Dean and confirm his suspicions.

Sam walks out to the covered balcony and the view is breathtaking. The mountains are dark smudges in the horizon ensconcing the twinkling lights of a city in the distance, and it’s all framed by tall evergreens and the lazy cascade of snow.

And yet, it doesn’t compare to Dean. He’s sitting in the hot tub, silhouette illuminated blue by the lights in the water. It cuts across his features, accentuating the the sharpness of his jawline and the slope of his nose. There’s steam rolling off the top of the water, and it makes Dean look almost ethereal.

“Dean?”

Dean throws a glance at him before returning his focus to the scenery.

“So what, you’re ignoring me now?”

Dean shakes his head exasperatedly. “Oh, I’m the one ignoring you?” He gives a wry smile. “That’s funny.”

Dean’s eyes are on him, warily watching as Sam gingerly makes his way up the steps leading to the water and sitting on the bench around the tub.

“Sorry I didn’t take you up on your hot tub invitation, but you never bothered to explain yourself to me.”

“Oh and I’m supposed to to be sweet to you after you yell at me and ignore me.” Dean sits up a little straighter, throwing his arms over the backs of the tub. “You know for someone who got a _full-ride_ to Stanford, you can be so dense sometimes.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I’m in love with you, Sam. I even wrote you a love letter. I know it’s nowhere as good as yours, but figured I should finally write you back, especially since you seem to like the whole _You’ve Got Mail_ thing so much.”

“You hate romantic, gooey things like that.”

“I know. So, if I took the time to write out my feelings like you like to do, that means...?”

“You’re a secret chick-flick enthusiast?”

Dean aims a small splash at Sam before pointedly looking him in the eye. “You’re impossible.”

Sam’s not really sure what to say next. Dean’s confessed his feelings for him are mutual. There’s no unsureness in his declaration, no hint of worry or care that their love is taboo. It’s just Dean wanting him to know that he loves Sam as much as Sam loves him. It feels like they’re on the tipping point of something, and Sam _wants_ to take the plunge (He turns his body towards the tub…), but there’s still some unfinished business he needs to take care of, some questions he needs answered (...and sticks his feet in.)

“Sorry I’ve been a complete bitch to you.”

“It’s alright,” Dean murmurs.

The need to be closer to Dean is suddenly overwhelming. Stripping off his coat, he slowly wades into the water.

“Uhh, you’re coming in, in sweats and a tee.”

“I don’t have a swimsuit.” He usually hates the way wet clothes clings to his skin, especially baggy sweatpants, but in this particular moment, it doesn’t matter.

Sam makes his way through the tub until he’s hovering before Dean.

“Why’d you never say anything about the letters?”

“I thought you were still hung up on Jess.” Dean reaches out and puts his hands on Sam’s hips, making him feel like he’s being enveloped in Dean’s space. “But when I got your letters, I was so excited Sammy, so happy that we were talking again. And then I read them and you were confessing your love for me. It took everything in me not to race to California to see you.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Really wanted you to finish college first. Told myself I’d been waiting for so long already that I could wait a couple months. But then the thing with Dad happened and I was happy that it gave me chance to go to you earlier, but then there was Jess and then she died and I just didn’t know when was the right time.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“Just couldn’t wait anymore. I love you, know you love me.” Dean says he knows, but something in his manner or the way he says it sounds like there’s some hesitation, like he’s still giving Sam a chance to get out. Sam needs to assure him that he’s not going anywhere.

He nods once. “I love you.”

The smile that blossoms on Dean’s face is unlike any he’s seen before. It’s bright and warm and reminds Sam of the sun.

“There’s no one like you, Sammy.”

Dean’s arms finally encircle his waist, pulling him onto his lap. Sam cups the back of Dean’s neck and stares into the green eyes that have been watching over him all his life. Their breaths intermingle as their lips slowly draw towards each other. The instant they touch, a shock runs through Sam. It’s a pretty chaste kiss, not much more than their closed mouths pressing together, but it’s startlingly good. It’s so good that he keeps pulling Dean in closer because he’s not willing to ever let go of something as great as this.

But, disappointingly, Dean pulls back. Sam’s a bit dazed and the only thing he can do is stare at Dean’s lips. The lips slowly morph into a smile, making him flick his gaze up to Dean’s and see amusement and tenderness overflowing in his eyes and spreading out to color the rest of his expression. It might be his favorite expression on Dean, so if he stares, it’s completely justified.

“What?” Dean whispers, happiness evident in his demeanor.

Sam just shakes his head. “Nothing.” It’s nothing he needs to inform Dean of; he’s sure Dean already knows, also feels the amazement and euphoria of the moment that’s rendering him a little speechless. There’s not really any need for words anyway, so the only thing left to do, the only thing he wants to do, is kiss Dean.

He leans in and slots their lips together. Dean wastes no time in deepening the kiss, pulling him in until their pressed flush against each other. It’s overwhelming the way Dean’s sucking and nibbling and licking and touching and caressing, and yet, it’s not enough. Sam needs more, so he opens his mouth wider, kisses harder, and presses in closer. With each press of the lips, his feelings grow to the point that usually has him writing letters, and maybe he will, after they’re done making out. It’ll probably be some mushy recount of this moment, but he knows Dean will love it no matter how chick-flick-y.

If his life is ever to be immortalized on the silver screen, Sam would say it’ll probably be some B-movie horror flick, but right now kissing Dean, he wouldn’t object to it being a romcom.

**Author's Note:**

> The last two scenes take place sometime between Asylum and Faith.


End file.
